THE MAJOR DISCOVERS HIS RELATIVE
After the inauguration, hunting became an organised and well-supported
recreation among the dwellers within the influence of the social
wavelets of the lake. The Benmohr firm found, on the whole—though the
stabling of hunters was not unaccompanied by expense—that it brought
their stud prominently before the public. Hence they found ready sale,
at an ascending scale of prices, for all the colts they could turn out.
Strangers came for the hunting, and made purchases. The hounds, too,
meeting regularly once a week during the winter months, exercised a
repressive influence upon the dingos, so much so, that M.F.H. (not being
a sheep-owner) began seriously to think of preserving these
much-maligned yet indispensable animals.
So widely spread and honourably mentioned was the fame of the Lake
William Hunt Club, that His Vice-regal Highness the Governor himself
more than once deigned to partake of the hospitality of The Chase,
bringing with him aides-de-camp and private secretaries, pleasant of
manner, and refreshing as such to the souls of the daughters of the
house.
Meanwhile Wilfred worked away at the serious business of the estate,
only taking occasional interest in these extraneous pleasures;
grumbling, moreover, at the expense, indirect or otherwise, that the
kennel necessitated.
However, it must be said in justice to him, that it was rarely he was
betrayed into impatience with regard to an occupation which, with other
branches of acclimatised field sports, had become the mainstay of his
father’s interest in life.
‘Really,’ Mr. Effingham would say, ‘in a few years—say about eighteen
hundred and forty-five or thereabouts—I believe we shall be nearly as
secure of decent sport as we were in old England. The Murray cod are
increasing in the lake. I have brown trout, dace, and tench in the
little river. There are almost too many rabbits; and as to hares,
pheasants, and partridges, we can invite half-a-dozen guns next season,
without fear of consequences. I have been offered deer from Tasmania.
With the inducement of a stag-hunt and a haunch of venison, I don’t see
why we shouldn’t finish our season right royally. Depend upon it, New
South Wales only wants enterprise, in the department of field sports, to
become one of the finest countries under the sun.’
There was no doubt that in the eyes of an observer not endowed with the
apprehensive temperament which numbers so many successful men amongst
its possessors, the appearance of matters generally at The Chase
justified reasonable outlay.
Wilfred had made a few guarded investments—all successful so far. What,
for instance, could pay better than the purchase of the quiet, dairy
steers from the small farmers in the autumn, when grass and cash were
scarce, to fatten them in the lake paddocks? Adjacent freeholds, from
time to time in the market, were added to the snug estate of The Chase.
True, he could not always find the cash at call for these tempting
bargains—(is there anything so enticing as the desire to add farm to
farm and house to house, as in the old, old days of Judah?)—but Mr.
Rockley was ready to endorse his bill, which, with his credit at the
Bank of New Holland, was as good as cash.
Thus passed the time until the close of the hunting season, before which
Major Glendinning had returned and apparently taken up his abode in the
neighbourhood, in great request at all the stations, and earning for
himself daily the character of a thorough sportsman. He purchased a
couple of horses from the Benmohr stud, on which, from time to time, he
performed such feats across country as caused it to be surmised that, in
the event of his settling in the neighbourhood, Bob Clarke would find a
rival.
He spoke highly of the standard as to blood and bone of the horses bred
in the district, openly stating that, in the event of the proprietors
being minded to establish a system of shipment to India, they might
expect extraordinary prices for their best horses, while the medium ones
would be worth double or treble their colonial value.
Mr. Rockley, after reckoning up expenses, together with the rather
serious item of risk of loss on ship-board, decided that there was a
handsome margin. He finished by declaring that in the following spring,
which would be in time for the cool season at Calcutta, he would send a
dozen horses of his own breeding, and join them in a cargo from the
district.
The idea was adopted. Preparations were made by handling and
stable-feeding as many of the saleable horses as could be spared.
O’Desmond was a warm supporter of the movement. He offered to find from
his long-established stud fully half the number necessary for the
undertaking. The Major, who was compelled to revisit India once more, if
but for the last time, had agreed to accompany the emigrants, and to see
them safely into the stables of old Sheik Mahommed, the great Arab
horse-dealer.
‘Fancy getting a hundred or two for our colts!’ said Hamilton. ‘Not more
than they are worth when you come to think of their breeding. I look
upon the Camerton stock as the very best horses in New South Wales,
probably in Australia. But of course we never expect more than a third
of such prices in these markets.’
‘The Major deserves a statue,’ said Argyll, ‘inscribed—“Ad centurionem
fortissimum, qui, equis canibusque gaudens, primus in Indis et in Nova
Cambria erat.”’
‘Very neat and classical,’ affirmed Fred Churbett. ‘I intend to send
Duellist. I should be sure to get three hundred for him, shouldn’t I?
He’s a sweet hack, but the price _is_ tempting. I daresay I could pick
up another one up to my weight.’
‘A horse of Duellist’s blood, size, and fashion would sell for that sum
any day in Calcutta,’ assented the Major. ‘He would be a remarkable
horse anywhere, and I need not tell you, would fetch more as a park hack
in London.’
‘Would we were both there!’ murmured Fred softly. ‘I fancy I see myself
on him doing Rotten Row. I have half a mind to go with you to Calcutta,
Major. If the trade develops we might make money a little faster than at
present, and have our fling in the old country before these locks are
tinged with grey,’ melodramatically patting his auburn _chevelure_.
‘It might be a desirable change,’ said Forbes. ‘Many people are said to
improve in appearance as they grow older.’
‘But not in mildness of disposition, James,’ retorted Churbett. ‘A
tendency to flat contradiction and aggressive argument has rarely been
known to abate with advancing years. But this is wide of the Indian
Remount Association. I don’t see why we shouldn’t offer to ship and sell
on commission. Many people in the district breed a good nag and don’t
know what to do with him afterwards. Suppose we consult the Squire about
it. He’s not a business man, but he knows India well.’
It was agreed that they should make up a party, consisting of Forbes,
Churbett, the Major, and Argyll, to ride over to The Chase that
afternoon. This was always a popular proceeding if any colour of
business, news, or sport could be discovered for the visit.
As they were nearing the gate of the home-paddock, they encountered
Wilfred Effingham, accompanied by his old stock-rider, bringing in a
draft of cattle. They amused themselves watching the efficient aid
rendered by the dog, and remarked incidentally the fiery impatience and
clever horsemanship of old Tom, who, roused by the difficulty of driving
some of the outlying younger cattle, was flying round the drove upon old
Boney at a terrific pace.
‘How well that old vagabond rides!’ said Fred Churbett, as Tom came
racing down the range after a perverse heifer, forcing her along at the
very top of her speed, with Boney’s opened mouth just at her quarter, at
which, with ears laid back and menacing teeth, he reached over from time
to time, the old man’s whip meanwhile rattling over her in a succession
of pistol-cracks, while he audibly devoted her to the infernal deities.
‘There, thin, may the divil take ye for a cross-grained, contrairy,
brindle-hided baste of a scrubber; may I niver if I don’t have ye in the
cask the first time yer bones is dacently covered!’ he wrathfully
ejaculated, as Boney stopped dead at the rear of the drove, into which
the alarmed heifer shot with the velocity of a shell.
As they rode up to Wilfred and his man, Major Glendinning addressed the
old stock-rider:
‘By the way, Tom, do you happen to know any one of your own name in this
part of the country—or elsewhere in the colony, as you have been such a
traveller?’
‘The divil a know I know,’ replied Tom (who was in one of his worst
humours, and at such times had little control over himself), ‘of any man
but Parson Glendinning that lives on the Hunter River, and he’s a
Scotchman and never seen “the black North” at all. But what raison have
ye to ask _me_? I’m Tom Stewart Glendinning, the stock-rider, and
barrin’ that I was “lagged” and was a fool to myself all my life long,
I’ve no call to be ashamed of my name, more than another man.’
As he spoke the old man raised himself in his saddle and looked
steadily, even fiercely, into the eyes of his interlocutor, who in turn,
half astonished, half irritated at the old man’s manner, frowned as he
returned the gaze with military sternness of rebuke.
Wilfred came up with the intention of rating his follower for his
acerbity, but as he marked the fixed expression of the two men,
something prevented him interposing. A similar feeling took possession
of the others, as they stopped speaking and unconsciously constituted
themselves an audience during this peculiar colloquy. Did a shadow of
doubt, a half-acknowledged idea cross the minds of the spectators, as
they watched the two men whose paths in life lay so wide apart? Was it
the fire which burned with sudden glow, at that moment, in the eyes of
both speakers, as they confronted each other, the chance similarity of
their aquiline features, closely compressd lips, and knitted brows?
Whatever the unseen influence, it was simultaneous, as it awed to
silence men, at no time easy to control, and placed them in a position
of mesmeric domination.
The Major rapidly, but with strangely husky intonation, then said:
‘Under that name did you send to Simon Glendinning, in the county of
Derry, certain sums of money?’
‘I did thin; and why wouldn’t I, if it was my own? It was asy made in
thim days; the country was worth living in,—not like now, overstocked
with “jimmies” and foreign trash.’
‘You sent that money, as I was informed,’ continued the Major,
persistently unheeding the old man’s petulance, ‘for the benefit of a
child, a nephew of your own, whom you desired to provide for?’
‘Nephew be hanged! The boy was _my son_, Owen Walter Glendinning by
name. Maybe he’s dead and gone this many a day, for I niver heard tale
or tidings of him since. It’s as well for him and betther. ’Tis little
use I see in draggin’ on life in this world at all, unless you’ve great
luck intirely. But what call have ye to be cross-examinin’ me—like a
lawyer—about my family affairs, and what makes the colour lave yer face
like a dead man’s? Who are ye at all?’
‘I am Owen Walter Glendinning! It was for me that your money was used. I
am—your—son!’
As he spoke an ashen hue overspread the bronzed cheek, and the strong
man swayed in his saddle as if he would have fallen to the ground. His
lips were clenched, and every feature bore the impress of the agony that
strains nature’s every capacity. As for the spectators, they looked upon
the actors in this life drama, of which the catastrophe had been so
unexpectedly sprung upon them, with silent respect accorded to those
beyond human aid. Words would have been worse than useless. They could
but look, but sit motionless on their horses, but school every feature
to passive recipiency, until the end should come.
‘God in Heaven!’ cried the old man; ‘do you tell me so? May the tongue
be blistered that spoke the word! It was a lie I tould you—lies—lies—I
tell ye; sure ye don’t belave a word of it?’
Then he looked at the despairing face of the soldier with wistful
entreaty and bitter regret, piteous to behold.
‘It is too late; it is useless to declare that you misled me. You have
betrayed the truth, which in pity for my unworthy pride you attempt to
conceal.’
‘It’s all a lie—a lie—a hellish lie!’ screamed the old man, transported
with rage and regret. ‘What you, my son! You! Major Glendinning, a fine
gintleman, and a soldier every inch of ye, the ayquals of the best
gintry in the land and they proud of ye, the son of a drunken old
convict stock-rider! I tell ye it _can’t_ be. I swear it’s a lie. I knew
the man ye spake of. He’s dead now, but he was book-larned and come of
an old family. I heard tell of his sending home money to his nephew in
the North, and our names being the same I just said it out of divilment.
Sure I’d cut my throat if I thought I’d be the manes of harmin’ ye. Why
don’t ye curse me? Why don’t ye tell thim gintlemen I’m a lyin’ old
villain? They know me well. Here, I’ll swear on my bended knees, by the
blessed Virgin and all the saints, there’s no word of truth in what I
said.’
As old Tom raved, implored, and blasphemed, cursing at once his own
folly and evil hap, his face writhed with the working of inward feeling.
His features were deadly pale, well-nigh livid; the tears ran down his
furrowed cheeks, while his eyes blazed with an unearthly light. As he
fell on his knees and commenced his oath of renunciation the calm tones
of the Major were again heard.
‘All this is vain and useless. Get up, and listen to reason. That you
are my—my father, I have now not the slightest reason to doubt. Your
knowledge of the name, of the annual sum sent, is sufficient evidence;
if these facts were not ample, the resemblance of feature is to me at
this moment, as doubtless to our good friends here, unmistakable. Fate
has brought about this meeting, why, I dare not question. You are too
excited to listen now’—here the old man made as though he would burst in
with a torrent of imprecations on the childish absurdity of the
speaker—‘but we shall meet again before I leave for India.’
‘May we niver meet again on God’s earth! ’Tis yerself that’s to blame if
this divil’s blast gets out. Sure the Benmohr gintlemen and Mr. Churbett
won’t let on. Mr. Wilfred’s close enough. Kape your saycret, and divil a
soul need hear of the sell ould Tom gave ye. My sarvice to ye, Major!’
Here the old man mounted and devoted his energies to the cattle. Wilfred
moved forward, by no means sorry that the strange scene had concluded.
‘Look here, Effingham, I will ride on to The Chase and make my adieus;
as well now as another time. I return at once to India. You understand
my position, I feel sure.’
He rode forward with a more upright seat, a firmer hand upon his
bridle-rein, and that stern lighting of the eyes that may be seen when,
and when only—
Bridle-reins are gathered up,
And sabres blaze on high,
ere each man spurs to the death feast, wherein his own name has,
perchance, been sounded on a shadowy roll-call by a phantom herald.
Hamilton urged his horse alongside of the Major and held out his hand.
Their eyes met as each wrung the proffered palm. But no word was spoken.
Argyll and Churbett rode slightly ahead. Before long they reached the
gate of The Chase, which, with its peculiar fastening, their horses
began to know pretty well, either sidling steadily up or commencing to
gambade at the very sight of it, in token of detestation, as did Grey
Surrey.
‘It seems odd that I shall perhaps never see this house again,’ said
Major Glendinning, slowly and reflectively. ‘I was beginning to be very
fond of it, and had made up my mind to buy a place for a stud farm and
settle near it. But why think of it now, or of anything else? “What is
decreed by Allah is decreed,” as saith the Moslem. Who am I to complain
of the universal fate?’
But as the strong man spoke there was an involuntary tremor in his
voice, a contraction of the muscles, as when the dumb, tortured frame
quivers under the surgeon’s knife.
‘Oh, how glad I am that you all came to-day,’ said Annabel, as they
walked in; ‘that is, if a girl is permitted to express her pleasure at
the arrival of gentlemen. Perhaps I should have said “how fortunate a
coincidence.” But, as a fact, all our horses are in to-day, and we were
just wondering if we could make up a riding-party after lunch. Mr.
Churbett, I can order you to come, because you never have any work to
do; not like some tiresome people who _will_ go home late at night or
early in the morning.’
‘I never get credit for my labours, Miss Annabel. I’m too good-natured
and easily intimidated—by ladies. But did you never hear of my memorable
journey with cattle from Gundagai to the coast, all in the depth of
winter; and—and—in fact—several other exploring enterprises?’
‘What, really, Mr. Churbett? Then I recant. But I thought you managed
the station from your verandah, sitting in a large cane chair, with a
pile of books on the floor.’
‘An enemy hath done this,’ said Mr. Churbett impressively. ‘Miss
Annabel, I never shall be exonerated till you immortalise The She-oaks
with your presence at a muster. Then, and then only, can you dimly
shadow forth the deeds that the knight Frederico Churbetto, with his
good steed Grey Surrey, is capable of achieving.’
‘“I wadna doot,” as Andrew says; and indeed, Mr. Churbett, I should like
very much to see all the galloping and watch you and your stock-riders
at work. You must ask mamma. Only, the present question is, can we have
a canter down to the lake side?’
‘We shall be truly thankful,’ said Hamilton. ‘I can answer for it. We
did not know the good fortune in store for us when we started.’
‘Oh, thanks, thanks! Consider everything nice said on both sides. But
what have you done to Major Glendinning? He looks so serious.’
‘Oh, he’s all right,’ said Hamilton, thinking it best to suffer their
friend to make his explanations personally. ‘Indian warriors, you know,
are apt to suffer from old wounds. Change of weather, I think.’
‘Poor fellow!’ said Annabel. ‘It seems hard that if one is not killed in
battle, he should have to suffer afterwards. However, we must cheer him
up. I will go and put my habit on.’
* * * * *
The afternoon was fine, so after a preliminary saddling-up, the whole
party filed off, apparently in high spirits. The roads in one direction
were always sound, while by ascending slightly one of the spurs of the
range a grand view was always obtainable.
Rosamond rode foremost, as she generally did, by right of the
exceptional walking of Fergus. She was accompanied by Forbes, whose
hackney had been selected after great research, his friends averred, in
order that he might rank as the next fastest pacer in those parts.
Argyll and Wilfred brought up the rear, occasionally joining company
with Annabel and Fred Churbett. The Major and Beatrice went next behind
the leaders. The couples preserved the order in which they set out, with
the exception of the inroad upon Fred and Annabel’s eager colloquies,
which were not deeply sentimental. That amiable personage complained
that no one scrupled to break in upon his _tête-à-têtes_. He ‘thought he
should have to grow a moustache and call some one out, in order to
inspire respect.’
Major Glendinning had made frequent visits to Warbrok, and familiar
intercourse having naturally resulted from his intimacy with their
friends at Benmohr, the family had come to look upon him as one of their
particular set. Of a nature constitutionally reserved, and more
specially self-contained from long residence as a military autocrat in
one of the provinces of Northern India, he had read and thought more
deeply than men of his class are apt to do. In proportion, therefore, to
his general reticence was his satisfaction in unlocking his stores of
experience when he met with congenial minds.
A few chance questions on the part of Beatrice Effingham, after his
first introduction to the family, had discovered to him that she was
better informed as to the administration of Northern India than most
people. Hence grew up between them a common ground of interest in which
he could expatiate and explain. And his listener was never tired of
hearing from an eye-witness and an actor the true story of the
splendours and tragedies of that historic land.
The real reason of this research, apart from the hunger for literary
pabulum, which at all times possessed Beatrice, was an affectionate
interest in the life of an uncle, who, after entering upon a brilliant
career, had perished through the treachery of a native Rajah. His
adventures had fascinated the romantic girl from early childhood; hence
she had loved to verify every detail of the circumstances under which
the star of the ill-fated Raymond Effingham had faded into darkness.
By those indescribable degrees of advance, of which the heart can note
the progress, but rarely the first approach, a friendship between the
Major and the thoughtful girl became so apparent as to be the subject of
jesting remark. When, therefore, he had announced his intention of
settling in the neighbourhood, a thrill of unusual force invaded the
calm pulses of Beatrice Effingham. Had his retirement from the service,
from the profession he loved so well, some reason in which her future
was concerned? If so, if he settled down on one of the adjoining
properties, could any union be more consonant with her every feeling,
taste, and aspirations than with one whom, in every way, she could so
fully respect and admire, whose deeds in that wonderland of her fancies
were written on the records of his country’s fame? It was a dream too
bright for reality. And though it would occasionally disturb the even
tenor of Beatrice’s hours in the library, her well-regulated mind
refused to dwell upon possibilities as yet unsanctioned.
When, therefore, Major Glendinning promptly availed himself of the
opportunity afforded by the ride to the lake to constitute himself her
escort; when, after a few commonplace observations, she observed that
his countenance, though more grave than was usual in her presence, had
yet an expression of fixed resolve, an indefinable feeling of
expectation, almost amounting to dread, took possession of her, and it
was with a beating heart and changing cheek that she listened.
‘I take advantage of this opportunity, Miss Beatrice, to say the words
which must be said before we part.’
‘Part!’ said the girl, shaking in every limb, though she bravely
struggled against her emotions and tried to impart firmness to her
voice. ‘Then you are going to leave us for India? Have you been ordered
back suddenly?’
‘That is as it may be,’ said the soldier; and as he spoke their eyes
met. His face wore a look of unalterable decision, yet so fraught was it
with misery, even despair, that she instinctively felt that Fate had
dealt her a remorseless stroke. ‘I have heard this day,’ he continued,
‘what has altered the chief purpose of my life—has killed my every hope.
I return to India by the next ship.’
‘You have heard terribly bad news,’ she answered very softly. ‘I see it
in your face. I need not tell you how we shall all sympathise with you;
how grieved we shall be at your departure.’
Here the womanly instinct of the consoler proved stronger than that of
the much-vaunted ruler of courts and camps, inasmuch as Beatrice lost
sight of her personal feelings in bethinking herself how she could aid
the strong man, whose features bore evidence of the agony which racked
every nerve and fibre.
‘I feel deeply grateful for your sympathy. I knew you would bestow it.
No living man needs it more. This morning I rode out fuller of pleasant
anticipation than I can recall, prepared to take a step which I hoped
would result in my life’s happiness. I had arranged for an extension of
leave, after which I intended to sell out and live in this
neighbourhood, which for many reasons—for every reason—I have found so
delightful.’
‘And your plans are altered?’
This query was made in tones studiously free from all trace of interest
or disapproval, although the beating heart and throbbing brain of the
girl almost prevented utterance.
‘I have this day—this day only—you will do me the justice hereafter to
believe—heard a statement, unhappily too true, which clears up the
mystery which has rested upon me from my birth. That cloud has been
removed. But behind it lies a foul blot, a dark shadow of dishonour,
which I deemed could never have rested on the name of Walter
Glendinning.’
‘Dishonour!’ echoed Beatrice. ‘Impossible! How can that be?’
‘It is as I say—deep and ineradicable,’ groaned out the unhappy man.
‘You will hear more from your brother. All is known to him and your
friends of Benmohr. Enough that I have no personal responsibility. But
it is a burden that I must carry till the day of a soldier’s death. You
will believe me when I say that my honour demands that I quit
Australia—to me so dear, yet so fatal. The years that may remain to me
belong to my country.’
‘I feel,’ said the girl, with kindling eye and a pride of bearing which
equalled his own, ‘that you are doing what your high sense of honour, of
duty, demands. I can but counsel you to take them, for guide and
inspiration. I know not the doom which has fallen on you, but I can bid
you God-speed, and pray for you evermore.’
‘You have spoken my inmost thoughts. God help us that it should be so.
But I were disloyal to every thought and aspiration of my nature if I
stooped to link the life of another, as God is my witness and judge, to
my tarnished name. We must part—never, perhaps, to meet on earth—but,
Beatrice, dearest and only loved—may I not call you so?—I who now look
upon your face, and hear your voice for the last time—you will think in
your happy home of one who tore the heart from his bosom, which a dark
fate forbade him to offer you. When you hear that Walter Glendinning
died a soldier’s death, give a tear to his memory—to his fate who
scorned death, but could not endure dishonour.’
Neither spoke for some moments. The girl’s tears flowed fast as she
gazed before her, while both rode steadily onward. The man’s form was
bowed, and his set features wore the livid aspect of him who has
received a death-wound but strives to hide the inward agony. Slowly,
mechanically, they rode side by side along the homeward track, in the
rear of the others until the entrance gate was reached. Then, as if by
mutual impulse, they turned towards each other, and their eyes met in
one long sorrowful glance. Such light has shone in the eyes of those who
parted ere now, sanctified by a martyr’s hope—a martyr’s death.
‘We shall meet,’ she said, ‘no more on earth; but oh, if you value my
love, cherish the thought of a higher life—of a better world, where no
false human pride, no barrier of man’s cruelty or injustice may sever
us. I hold the trust which my heart, if not my lips, confessed. Till
then, farewell, and may a merciful God keep our lives unstained until
the day of His coming.’
She drew the glove from her hand hurriedly. It fell at his horse’s feet.
He dismounted hastily, and placed it in his bosom, and raising her
ice-cold hand to his lips, pressed it with fervour. Then accompanying
her to the hall door, he committed her to the charge of Wilfred, who,
with his mother and sister, stood on the verandah, took a hurried leave
of the family, regretting that he was compelled, by sudden summons, to
rejoin his regiment, and with his friends, who with ready tact made
excuse for returning, took the familiar track to Benmohr.
Few words were spoken on the homeward road, which was traversed at a
pace that tried the mettle of the descendants of Camerton. That night
the friends sat late, talking earnestly. It was long after midnight
before they separated. On the following day Major Glendinning and his
father met at a spot half-way between The Chase and Benmohr, the
interview being arranged by Hamilton, who rode over and persuaded the
old man to accompany him. What passed between them was never known, but
ere that night was ended the Major was far on his way to Sydney, which
he reached in time to secure a passage in the good ship _Governor
Bourke_, outward bound for China. In the course of the week Mr.
Effingham received a letter in explanation of the circumstances, signed
Owen Walter Glendinning, declaring his unworthiness to aspire to his
daughter’s hand, as well as his inability to remain in the country after
the mystery of his birth had been so unexpectedly revealed to him. He
held himself pledged to act in the matter after the expiration of a year
in accordance with what Mr. Effingham, acting as the guardian of his
daughter’s happiness, might consider in the light of an honourable
obligation. A bank draft drawn in favour of Thomas Stewart Glendinning
was enclosed, with an intimation that an annual payment would be
forwarded for his use henceforth during the writer’s life.
* * * * *
The first cloud which the Effinghams had descried since their arrival in
Australia had appeared in the undimmed horizon. The breath of evil,
which knows no bound nor space beneath the sun, had rested on them.
Habitually taking deeper interest in the subjective issues of life than
in its material transaction, they were proportionately depressed. All
that maternal love and the most tender sisterly affection could give was
lavished upon the sufferer. Her well-disciplined mind, strengthened by
culture and purified by religion, gradually acquired equilibrium. But it
was long ere the tranquil features of Beatrice Effingham recovered their
wonted expression; and a close observer could have detected the trace of
an inward woe in the depths of her erstwhile clear, untroubled eyes.
In his answer to the letter which he had received, Mr. Effingham ‘fully
agreed with the course which his friend had taken, and the determination
which he had expressed. Looking at the situation, which he deplored with
his whole heart, he was unable to see any other mode of action open to
him as a man of honour. Deeply prejudicial as had been the issue to the
happiness of his beloved daughter, he could not ask him (Major
Glendinning) to swerve by one hair’s-breadth from the path which he had
laid down for himself. His wishes would be attended to with respect to
the bank draft forwarded for the use of the person named, but he would
suggest that Mr. Sternworth should be chosen as the recipient of future
remittances. He would, in conclusion, wish him the fullest measure of
success and distinction which his profession offered, with, if not
happiness, the inward satisfaction known to those who marched ever in
the vanguard of honourable duty. In this wish he was warmly seconded by
every member of the family.’
Old Tom, after notice of his intention to leave the employment,
presented himself before his master, dressed and accoutred as for a
journey, leading Boney and followed by the uncompromising Crab. His
effects were fastened in a roll in front of his saddle, his coiled
stockwhip was pendent from the side-buckle. All things, even to the
fixed look upon the weather-beaten features, betokened a settled
resolution.
‘I’m going to lave the ould place, Captain,’ he said; ‘and it’s sorry I
am this day to quit the family and the lake and the hounds, where I laid
it out to lave the ould bones of me. I’m wishin’ the divil betther
divarshion than to bother with the family saycrets of the likes o’ me.
Sure he has lashins of work in this counthry, without disturbin’ the
last days of poor ould Tom Glendinning—and he sure of me, anyhow. My
heart’s bruk, so it is.’
‘Hush, Tom,’ said his employer. ‘We can understand Major Glendinning’s
feelings. But, after all, it is his duty to acknowledge the ties of
nature. I have no doubt that after a time he will become—er—used to the
relationship.’
‘D——n the relationship!’ burst out the old man menacingly. ‘Ah, an’ sure
I ax yer pardon, yer honour, for the word; but ’tis wild I am that the
Major, a soldier and a rale gintleman every inch of him, that’s fought
for the Queen and skivered them infernal blackamoors in the Injies,
should be given out as the son of a blasted ould rapparee like me. It
was asy knowing when I seen that look on him when he heard the name, but
how could I drame that _my son_ could have turned into a king’s
officer—all as one as the best of the land? If I _had_ known it for
sartain, before he axed me, I’d have lived beside him as a common
stock-rider for years, if he’d come here, and he’s niver have known no
more than the dead. It’s a burning shame and a sin, that’s what it is!’
‘It may have been unfortunate,’ said Mr. Effingham; ‘but I can never
regard it as wrong that a father and a son should come to know of the
tie which binds them to each other.’
‘And why not, I ask ye?’ demanded the old man savagely. ‘What good has
it done aither of us? It’s sent _him_ back, with a sore heart, to live
among them black divils and snakes and tigers, a murdtherin’ hot
counthry it is by all accounts, when he might have bought a place handy
here and bred horses and cattle—sure he’s an iligant rider and shoots
beautiful, don’t he now? I wonder did he take them gifts after me?’ said
the old man, with the first softened expression and a half sigh. ‘Sure,
if I could have plazed myself _with lookin’ at him_ and he not to know,
I wouldn’t say but that I might have listened to Parson Sternworth
and—and—repinted,—yes, repinted,—after all that’s come and gone! And now
I’m on the ould thrack agin, with tin divils tearin’ at me, and who
knows what will happen.’
‘There’s no need for you to lead a wandering life, or indeed, to work at
all, even if you leave the district,’ said Mr. Effingham. ‘I have a sum
in my hands, forwarded by the Major, sufficient for all your wants.’
‘I’ll not touch a pinny of it!’ cried out the old man; ‘sure it’s blood
money, no less, his _life_, anyway, that will pay for this! Didn’t I see
his eye, when he shook hands with me, and begged my pardon for his
pride, and asked me to bless him—_me_!’—and here the old man laughed
derisively, a sound not pleasant to hear. ‘If there’s fighting where
he’s going, and he lives out the year, it will be because lead and cowld
steel has no power to harm a man that wants to die. Mr. Effingham, I’ll
never touch it; and why would I? Sure the drink’ll kill me, fast enough,
without help.’
‘But why go away? I am so grieved that, after your faithful service, you
should leave in such a state of mind.’
‘Maybe I’ll do ye more sarvice before I die, but I must get into the
far-out runs, or I’ll go mad thinking of _him_. It was my hellish timper
that let the words out so quick, or he’d never have known till his dying
day. Maybe the rheumatiz was to blame, that keeps burning in the bones
of me like red-hot iron, till I couldn’t spake a civil word to the
blessed Saviour Himself. Anyhow, it’s done now; but of all I ever
did—and there’s what would hang me on the list—I repint over _that_, the
worst, and will till I die. Good-bye, sir. God bless the house, and thim
that’s in it.’
The old man remounted his wayworn steed with more agility than his
appearance promised, and taking the track which led southward, went
slowly along the road without turning his head or making further speech.
The dog rose to his feet and trotted after him. In a few moments the
characteristic trio passed from sight.
‘Mysterious indeed are the ways of Providence!’ thought Effingham, as he
turned towards the house. ‘Who would ever have thought that the fortunes
of this strange old man would ever have been associated with me or mine.
I feel an unaccountable presentiment, as if this incident, inexplicable
as it is, were but the forerunner of evil!’